


A Dangerous Thing

by romanticalgirl



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Minor Character Death, Shawshank redemption au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 15:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15027185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: Steve goes to prison for a crime he didn't commit and meets some of his worst nightmares as well as a bright spot in his life - Bucky Barnes.  Prison is what he expects, but Steve is resilient and refuses to give up.Hope is a dangerous thing, but Steve Rogers isn't afraid of danger. Never has been.A Shawshank Redemption AU





	A Dangerous Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rohkeutta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rohkeutta/gifts).



> So much thank you to Rohkeutta for the amazing art to work with and all of the inspiration for the story . It was such a pleasure to work with you!

Steve looks around, wondering how in the hell he got here. How he went from a well-respected vice-president of a bank to a man facing the death penalty. He knows the steps that led here, knows the stupid things he did. But nothing he did should have ended up here.

Judge Ross looks at the jury and Steve follows his eyes. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“We have, your honor.” The lead juror stands and looks directly at Steve. There’s nothing in her eyes, nothing that tells him one way or another how it had gone. His lawyer said a quick deliberation could be good. Or bad. 

“Mr. Rogers. Please rise.” Steve stands and Judge Ross looks at the juror. “And what is your decision?”

“On the first count of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant, Steven Grant Rogers, guilty.” There’s a low hum from the crowd, but Steve doesn’t listen. He just stares at the head juror, eyes wide. 

“And on the second count?”

“On the second count of first-degree murder, we find the defendant guilty.”

Steve stares. This is a nightmare. One nightmare that’s been going on and on since he walked in and found his wife in bed with someone else. This isn’t his life.

“Mr. Rogers, you have been found guilty of the murder of your wife, Elizabeth Rogers, and Marcus Webster.” Ross glances at Steve then at the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your services. Mr. Wilson, I’ll see you and your client in my chambers for sentencing.”

Steve looks at his lawyer who nods. Two guards come up behind Steve, getting him to his feet and cuffing his hands at his sides. They stay beside him as he follows his lawyer down the hall to the judge’s chambers. Another guard opens the door, and Steve gets jostled inside, keeping him cuffed and standing as his lawyer sits.

Fifteen minutes later the judge joins them, sliding into the leather seat behind his desk. Steve’s brow is furrowed, staring at the judge and refusing to look away.

“Let me ask you, Mr. Rogers, what do you think your punishment should be?”

“Truthfully, your honor? I didn’t kill them, so I think knowing - and the world knowing - my wife was cuckolding me seems punishment enough.”

“I’m afraid a jury of your peers disagrees with you, so we’re going to accept their decision as truth. What punishment do you think is fair. New York allows for the death penalty. Two murders. That’s the electric chair.”

“Sounds like you’ve made up your mind.”

“You think so, do you? My wife, Mr. Rogers? She cheated on me, and the thought of killing her crossed my mind. The difference between me and you though? You took up that gun, Mr. Rogers. I was a man. You gave into the beast.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move a muscle.

The corner of Ross’s mouth twitch upward. “But I think every man understands that primal urge, so I’m not sending you to the electric chair.” He leans forward, pointing at Steve. “What I see in front of me is a emotionless, calculating, plotting man who, for once in his life, felt emotion. Rage. Anger. Embarrassment. Shame. I think you felt that and you killed them in cold blood, killed them. Overkill, Mr. Rogers. I think the electric chair is too good for you. Two consecutive sentences of life without parole, Mr. Rogers.”

“I’m innocent.”

“Tomorrow you’ll be on your way to Shield Maximum Security Detention Center. I’m sure they’ll have the welcome committee ready for you.” He nods at the two guards and they grab Steve’s upper arms again.

“Come on, Rogers. You’ve got one more night. You’re not through with us yet.”

**

There are twelve other men on the bus to Shield, all of them with chains around their waists, hands cuffed to their sides. They’re spaced apart on the bus, chain hanging down between them. There are six guards along with the driver, all of them armed. Steve’s at the back of the bus, taking the brunt of the rough road as they roll over potholes. He’s beginning to think the driver’s making sure to hit every one.

“Bet you make lots of nice friends inside, Rogers. Pretty boy like you? Gonna be real popular.”

Steve keeps staring straight ahead. He has yet to give Officer Rollins the satisfaction of a response, not making a sound no matter what he does. He ignores the mocking grin at his side and the furtive glances of the other inmates.

“Wonder which boy’s gonna snap you up. Might just have to auction you off. What d’you think you’ll be worth? Couple packs of cigarettes? Girlie magazine?” When Steve doesn’t respond, he laughs. “What’d’you think, Ward?”

“Rumlow’s not gonna let anyone else have him. Not ‘til he’s through with him.”

Steve doesn’t react. Everyone hears stories of what happens in prison. He also knows that, as backwards as it seems, if anyone found out about his proclivities, he’d have an even harder time of it. He’s already here for being cuckolded, which sets him up as a target. He doesn’t need anyone to know that he’s had male lovers in the past. 

He tunes out the guards, wondering what his life is now. He’s never been good at making friends. Too proud, too stubborn, too sure he's right. He knows none of those will serve him well.

“You’re gonna love Rumlow.” Rollins moves closer to Steve, rancid breath in his face. “Couldn’t satisfy your wife, but he’ll fuck you until you satisfy him. You’re not going to be doing much sitting down, Rogers, are you.”

Steve looks him in the eye and gives him a small smile. He sees a flash of confusion in Rollins’s eyes just before Steve slams his head forward, hitting Rollins on the bridge of his nose. He rears back, his hand going up to stop the bleeding.

“Don’t talk about my wife that way.” Before Steve can say anything else, Rollins unholsters his gun and slams the butt of it against Steve’s temple. He can feel blood slither down his face, catching on his eyelashes until his vision is red.

“You just bought yourself a stay in solitary, Rogers. Give all the boys time to plan what they’re gonna do to you. Parade you in and let them get a good long look. Whet their appetites.”

Steve sniffs, shaking his head as the blood keeps dripping down, drops of it landing on Rollins’s face. 

“That’s what I thought.” Rollins holsters his gun and gets up, moving back to his original seat. The other inmates look away, obviously not wanting to draw any attention their way.

They reach Shield in silence, driving into the fenced off area and sitting there as the gates close behind them. The prisoners are all gathered around, shouting and making noises at them. Steve doesn’t look up as they’re herded off the bus and marched through the next set of gates. One of the guys in the line stumbles, and a guard grabs his hair and jerks him up to his feet.

“Keep moving, you piece of shit.”

Another gate is unlocked, a door opened. They strip down and are body searched, hosed off and slapped with delousing powder. All but Steve are given a bundle of clothes and bed linens, and they hold them in front of them like security blankets. Steve stands with his hands crossed in front of him, not attempting to hide. 

A man walks into the room and sizes them up. He’s handsome, strawberry-blond hair dusted with gray. He looks kind until Steve sees his eyes, cold and hard as flint. “I’m Warden Pierce. Welcome to Shield. I’d say I hope you enjoy your stay, but you won’t. You’ll work and you’ll pray and you’ll do what your told when you’re told. You belong to us now.” His eyes fall on Steve. He glances at the clipboard in the hands of the guard beside him. “Rogers, is it?”

Steve doesn’t say anything. The guard walks up to him and slaps him across the face with the clipboard, the metal gouging Steve’s cheek. “The warden asked you a question.” He takes a step back and Steve holds his gaze as more blood spills down his cheek. 

The warden comes closer, right in Steve’s space, eye to eye. “Rogers, is it?”

Steve grits his teeth. “Yes.”

“Yes. Exactly what I expected.” He turns on his heel. “Get them out of here.”

The guard with the clipboard grabs Steve’s arm, pulling him out of the line. A guard at the far end of the room calls out and the other prisoners file after him. “Not you, Rogers. You get a special cell. Most people don’t get it on the first night. You must be lucky.”

“Is that what it is?”

The guard laughs. “Sure. Let’s call it that.” He shoves Steve forward and out a different door. The air gets colder as they descend two floors, goosebumps rising on Steve’s skin to replace the water droplets from his hosing down. They finally stop in a gray hallway with three heavy doors settled against the wall. “Home sweet home, Goldilocks.” 

The guard opens one of the doors, sliding it to the side to reveal a small room with nothing but a cement floor and a toilet. It’s not even five feet across and, even with the door open, it’s a pitchy blackish gray. 

“This is the hole. You’re gonna be here for a while. You fucked up a guard. We don’t put up with that.”

“Is that so?”

“Or back talk.” He steps forward, tilting his head up so he can stare directly at Steve. “You depraved fucks want to kill each other and make my life easier? Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

“You have at least one innocent man in here.”

“Buddy, ask any one of ‘em. They’re all innocent.”

** 

Solitary is dark and damp. The toilet’s backed up, the floor at the base of it wet. Steve bites back the urge to gag through most of the first day until the smell just becomes part of the background. He sits with his back against the wall, the chill of the concrete seeping inside him until he’s shivering. 

He stares into the darkness, still trying to figure out how he got here. Yes, he’d been drunk. Yes, he’d had a gun. Yes, he’d thought about it. But he’d wised up, sobered up. Gone home and slept it off. 

But they’d been killed and now he’s here. This is his life.

Two lifetimes.

Forever.

**

He spends a week in the hole, standing up to get the food they place on a tray just inside his door. The slot of a window slides open and it feels like light floods the room. He gets oatmeal and water, a dry sandwich with a slice of meat he can’t quite identify and something he thinks is supposed to be cheese. He uses the toilet sa sparingly as possible. He scratches away the dried blood from his hair, from his face.

When the door finally opens, he flinches away from the light. Two guards grab him and haul him to his feet. His body feels numb, and they drag him half the way until his muscles remember how to work and he stumbles along in their grasp. There’s a pile of linens on the bed and a set of clothes. The cell has a bed, a toilet, a sink, and a barred window. After the hole, it seems like luxury. In hell.

One of the guards leaves, but the other stands outside Steve’s cell and leans against the railing outside, arms crossed over his chest. “Usually it takes a while to make enemies. But you just pissed ‘em off right out of the gate.”

“Before the gate.”

“Right. You’re the one who busted Rollins’s nose and managed to actually make him less hideous.”

“He said things about my wife.”

“That’d be the wife you shot? The one who you caught in bed with someone else?”

“I didn’t shoot her, but yes.”

“Good. he deserved it. Grab your clothes. You need a shower and to do something about your face. You look like a murder victim yourself.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you being nice?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” He looks Steve over. “I don’t like Rollins. And I don’t like Sitwell. And I don’t really like Pierce all that much either.”

“Does anyone?”

“Well, hopefully you won’t have to deal with any of them much. Sitwell you aren’t going to be able to avoid. And, if you keep this up.” He moves his finger in a circle, gesturing at Steve’s face. “You’re going to be spending a lot of time with Zola.”

“Who’s that?”

“He’s the doctor. Mad scientist. Don’t trust him in the slightest.”

“And who are you?”

“Stark.”

“So you’re not going to be attending the staff Christmas party?”

“Nope. Won’t be buying a gift for the gift exchange either. Come on. We’ll get you in the shower then take you out to the yard. Let you soak up the atmosphere.” He follows Stark’s directions and takes a shower, washing a week’s worth of filth, the smell of bodily fluids and infection off of him. The hot water stings the cut on his head and his cheek, and he brings up fresh blood when he scrubs at them. But he feels almost human as he dries off and gets dressed and then follows Stark out to the yard. 

When they walk through the doors, Steve sucks in lungfuls of fresh air. Stark jerks his head at a guard on the opposite end of the yard who’s walking amongst the inmates. Steve looks at him and then looks up at the others situated in towers, staring down, watching. “That’s Lang. Decent guy. Me and him. We’re decent guys. I won’t vouch for anyone else.”

“Thanks.”

“Try not to get killed.” Stark turns on his heel and heads back inside. Several of the inmates look at Steve, either sizing him up, or in blatant disgust. There’s a set of bleachers nearby and Steve walks over to it, settling down on the lowest bench. He looks around, but he’s careful not to look anyone in the eye. The cliques are easy to spot, and he has no problem identifying the Rumlow he’s been threatened with. 

A whistle blows and all of the other prisoners start to fall in line. Steve gets to his feet and does the same, knowing he’s still being watched. 

“Who’d you piss off?”

Steve turns his head to the side quickly. There’s a man next to him, a little taller than Steve, and bulkier, but slim all the same. His eyes are silver-blue in the light filtering through the gray clothes, and his mouth is curved in a smile.

“I've lost track.”

He snorts a laugh. “You don’t look the type. Of course, you don’t look like the type to end up here.”

“Wasn’t in my plans.”

“Wasn’t in any of our plans.” He keeps pace with Steve as they follow the other prisoners inside. “You’re Rogers, right? Double homicide? Two life.”

“Yeah.”

“You know, they can’t try you again. You can admit you did it.”

“But I didn’t. I’m innocent.”

“Lots of innocent men in here.”

“So I’ve heard. Are you one of them?”

“Me? Hell no. Got me dead to rights. Running booze, guns, and drugs for Frank Notti.” He tips his cap at Steve. “James Barnes.”

Steve nods, not looking at him. “How long have you been here?”

“Ten years. Rest of my life to go.”

“You can’t be more than, what? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-eight. You?”

Steve sighs. “Twenty-seven.”

“How long were you married?”

“Eight years.”

“Young.”

“War.”

“Yeah. Missed that one thanks to the justice system of the state of New York.”

“Me too. Four-F. Thought I’d still get called up. Especially there at the end.” He shrugs. “But apparently they only let you get shot at if you’ve got enough blood. If you can’t lose a certain amount, they don’t want you to lose any, I guess.”

“If you didn’t get called up, why’d you get married? Eight years. That was before the war.”

“She thought she was in trouble.”

Bucky slaps Steve on the shoulder, earning him a quick shouted reprimand from Lang. “You dog.”

“Not me!” Steve’s eyes widen. “She met an airman. From London. It wasn’t me. And. Well, turned out she wasn’t.”

“I hate to tell you, friend, but not sure I’d’ve trusted a woman like that.”

“She wasn’t like that.”

“Okay. Whatever you say. But all evidence points to the contrary.”

“You didn’t know her. We loved each other. She loved me.”

“Didn’t seem to stop her from lovin’ someone else.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “I showed Rollins what happens when people insult my wife. I’d be happy to show you too.”

“I’m not gonna fight you, Joe Louis. Pretty sure you’re gonna have enough trouble without getting into it with me.”

They finally get into the building, and the guard that had taken Steve to solitary is standing in the middle of the room. “Rogers! Come with me.”

James hisses. “Sitwell. Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

Sitwell uses the tight grip on Steve’s arm to shove him into the room and then lets him go so Steve stumbles into the metal exam table. “Sit. Sit. You must be Mr. Rogers.” The doctor has a European accent. It sounds German, too much recent history weighing on him. “I am Dr. Zola. Mr. Sitwell explained that you have an injury on your forehead and cheek. We’ll have to look at it. Sit. Sit.”

Steve glances at Sitwell and then climbs onto the table. Zola looks delighted as he reaches out and pushes Steve’s shoulder to make him lie back. Light shines off Zola’s glasses as he snaps on a set of gloves. “Let us take a look, shall we?”

He turns on a light over Steve’s head, blinding him. He turns his head away, but Sitwell grabs Steve’s head and jerking it back, holding him still. Zola clucks his tongue.

“Oh dear, Mr. Rogers. This doesn’t look good. It doesn’t look good at all.” He moves away and it sounds like one of the rats Steve has heard in the walls, scurrying against concrete. Sitwell holds Steve’s head tighter, fingers digging into Steve’s skin just above the abrasion from the butt of the gun.

Zola’s back in a few moments, something metal rattling in his wake.

“Now. This will hurt a bit. Can’t be helped.” Steve feels his sleeve being rolled up, feels the cold bite of a needle against his inner elbow. Zola leans in again, blocking the light, his glasses black in the halo surrounding his head. “You can let him go, Mr. Sitwell. Mr. Rogers won’t be going anywhere.”

**

Steve wakes up back in his cell. He’s not sure if the low growl of his stomach woke him or if it was something else. There’s a tray of food sitting on the shelf of the metal opening in the door of his cell. Steve sits up, grabbing the sides of his cot as the world tips sideways. He doesn’t move for a long moment then he turns carefully to put both feet on the floor.

This time, the room tilts the opposite direction and he falls off the cot to his knees. He crawls across the floor to the toilet and his body jerks as his stomach rebels. Only bile comes up, and he spits it into the water. 

He grabs the sink to pull himself to his feet. There’s a metal cup next to the faucet and he fills it with water. His hand shakes as he drinks it and the metallic taste at least masks the bile. He glances up at the silver painted panel that serves as a mirror. There’s a row of neat black stitches at his temple, the skin an angry red around it. Several bandages hold his cheek together. He reaches up and touches each wound. They’re sore, but they don’t have the stink and signs of infection he’d worried about.

Feeling stable enough to try to walk, he makes his way to the door of his cell and looks at the tray. The food is cold and somewhat congealed, but his stomach doesn’t seem to care. He eats it standing there - cold meatloaf, plasticky green beans, and clumpy macaroni and cheese. He swallows it down with cold coffee and warm milk. He eats too fast, but he doesn’t know how long he’s been unconscious and when he last ate.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.” Steve glances down the hall to see Stark. “You look better than when I last saw you but, other than you being dead, I’m not sure you could look worse. You smell like shit though, so lucky for you it’s shower time. Grab your shit. Hop to.”

Steve does and walks out of the cell as Stark calls out to have the door opened. He heads toward the showers, Stark reminding him a few times when he seems to lose his way. The showers are already going, so Steve puts his stuff down and strips, everything he’s wearing going into the large laundry bin.

Guards are stationed around the room, but that doesn’t stop the catcalls as several of the other prisoners deliberately stare at Steve. He knows he’s not much to look at, shorter than average and slim. He also knows that it makes him a target. One of the others looks at Steve, eyes appraising and possessive.

Steve ignores him and heads for the nearest spray, washing off everything that’s happened since his last shower. He’s only been under the water for a couple of minutes when the water goes cold and shuts off.

“All right, assholes. Dry off, get dressed, line up.” A guard Steve doesn’t know calls out. All of the prisoners follow the instructions. Steve just tugging on his shoes when a hand lands on his shoulder. He starts and looks over. There’s a well-built white man, dark hair and a dark, furrowed brow smiling down at him. It takes a moment to realize he’s the man who was staring at him earlier.

He smiles and moves his hand to the back of Steve’s head then drags it down to Steve’s neck and squeezes. “You are a pretty little thing. Sitwell didn’t lie about that.”

Steve tenses, stepping forward out of the man’s touch. “Too bad the same thing can’t be said for you.”

His hand snaps out and grabs the back of Steve’s neck again, fingers digging in. He leans closer, and his breath makes Steve want to gag. “Mouthy too. Don’t worry, sunshine, I’ll put it to good use. You’d best plan to spend at least one of your two lives on your knees.”

“Rumlow.” One of the guards snaps and the grip on Steve’s neck disappears. “Line up.”

Rumlow moves past Steve, but keeps his eyes on him, a crocodile smile on his lips. Steve starts to follow when another hand claps on his shoulder. He turns his head and sees James. 

“I see you’ve been making new friends.”

“I’m more of a loner.” 

“I don’t think he cares.”

“I’m not particularly concerned about his feelings.”

James laughs even as Steve shoves his hand off his shoulder. “I like you kid. Too bad you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“There are worse things than being dead. Whatever I do, I have to live with.”

James smiles as they get to the end of the line. “Might want to eat a lot of iron for that anemia. Pretty sure you’re going to get your war wish and start losing a lot of blood.”

**

He makes it through the next three months without much trouble. He’s sent to see Zola three more times, all of them involving Sitwell holding his head still until the drug in Zola’s syringe takes him over. He wakes up each time to a tray of cold food, nausea, and no recollection of an unknown length of time. 

He spends his days in the yard alone unless Barnes comes over, which he’s been doing more and more. He spends too much of the time next to Steve, putting a restraining hand on Steve’s forearm or shoulder to keep him from charging in when groups of white inmates gang up on the black ones.

James doesn’t manage to stop him all the time, but when he does, he reminds Steve that every fight is likely to end up on Zola’s exam table. It doesn’t keep Steve from fighting - he doubts anything could - but he gets better at hiding the damage when the guards break things up. Assuming they actually do.

In his fourth month, he’s assigned to the laundry, and even though it’s hard work, he doesn’t think to complain, because the chill that seemed to settle in his bones in solitary disappears in the steaming air.

The relative peace comes to an abrupt end when he walks into the laundry room one day and Rumlow is standing there, arms crossed over his chest, and a sharp smile on his lips. Steve knows Rumlow’s been in solitary, heard it through the prison gossip system which is faster than anything he’s ever seen, even in the tenements of Brooklyn.

“Well, hello Sunshine.”

Steve keeps walking, keeping distance between them as he heads to his station at the folding table. He grabs the first bundle of white undershirts and separates them by size before he starts folding. There’s the swish and hum of the machines all around him, but the usual chatter is missing, no one making a sound. His hands tremble just enough to remind him to take a deep breath.

Thick fingers curve around the back of Steve’s neck. Solitary hadn't done anything for Rumlow’s breath. “I said hello.”

Steve just keeps folding and Rumlow’s fingers tighten. Steve swallows hard.

“Now I’m just here being polite. Making friends. You and me are gonna be good friends.” Rumlow presses closer, up against Steve. His hand slides around to the front of Steve’s throat. Steve suppresses a shudder, knowing that revulsion is likely to be construed as interest.

Rumlow leans closer and breathes in Steve’s ear. “You’re gonna love being my friend.”

Steve jabs his elbow back, using the few seconds of surprise to twist out of Rumlow’s grip. He takes a few steps away, not running, but putting distance between them.

“You son-of-a-bitch.” Rumlow roars and starts toward Steve. Steve ducks under the fast punch /Rumlow throws, and manages a quick jab to his abdomen. He uses his speed to gain distance again, keeping calm now that the fight’s on. Rumlow’s a lumbering ox and telegraphs his moves, so Steve only takes a few punches and manages to get in several hits of his own.

Rumlow smiles and Steve steps back, freezing and hands grab both his arms. He turns his head to the side and sees Rumlow’s cronies holding him still. Rumlow nods, and they lift Steve off the ground and drag him back to the storage room with the barrels of lye, soap and industrial bottles of bleach. They hold him down and Rumlow comes close, grinning like a cat who got the cream. 

“Turn him over.” Steve’s twisted on his back and he struggles, fighting against the grips on his arms. Rumlow just laughs and grabs Steve’s head, shoving his face against the gritty lid of one of the soap barrels. “Told you we’re gonna be friends.”

**

No one says anything in the nexts days, the next weeks when Steve shows up with new bruises, red marks in the shape of fingers. No one says anything as he winces when he sits down. No one says anything because Steve looks them all in the eye, daring them to. 

James shakes his head at Steve and sits next to him on the bleachers. He leans back on the seat behind him, elbows on the metal and his legs stretched out in front of him. “You okay?”

“Been better.” Steve licks the cut on his lip. There’s a dark stain of blood on the edges still and Steve worrying it with his tongue isn’t doing anything to help it heal. 

“You still fighting them?”

“Yeah.”

“Might be easier if you didn’t.”

Steve turns his head slowly and nails James with a glance. “Is that what you’d do? Give in?”

“Don’t know what I’d do really. Having Frankie’s name at my back means nobody touches me. Never have. Rumlow knows if he even tried, he’ll be dead before he hits the floor. Frankie’s got a lot of friends in here. Out there.” He rests one ankle over the other. “Probably hurt a lot less if you didn’t fight it.”

“I don’t care if it hurts.”

“Might not want it if you didn’t fight him.”

“I’m not giving up. I’m not giving in. Not to him, not to anyone like him. He’s a bully and you lay down for him, and he’ll stand on top of you. You run and you can’t stop. He can beat me, he can rape me, he can do… most anything to me, but I’m never going to lie down and take it.”

“I don’t know whether to be impressed or ask the warden to get you a headshrinker.” Steve rubs the cuff of his sleeve against his lip, bringing up a fresh well of blood. James follows his gaze and shakes his head as Steve stares at Rumlow and his pack. “You can’t just let it go?”

“No.” Steve eases off the bleachers as a whistle blows. He moves past Rumlow, not even glancing at him. Rumlow laughs and follows him, standing in line right behind him. 

“Showers tonight, Rogers, after dinner. Don’t be late.”

“Sorry, Rumlow. I’ve got other plans.”

Rumlow grabs Steve and jerks him halfway around. Sitwell sees them and looks away. “You’re gonna be where I tell you to be, or I’m going to make you. And you won’t like it.”

“Gotta say, Rumlow, I can’t think of anything that involves you that I would like. Other than maybe someone giving you a taste of your own medicine. But then, I wouldn’t want to see anyone else have to suffer like that.”

“You’re gonna bleed,” Rumlow growls, a shiv sliding out of his sleeve into his hand. He wiggles it back and forth and his smile grows wider. “Oh, sunshine. I’m gonna make you bleed so pretty.” He starts toward Steve and Steve glances around. The rest of the lines are inside the prison, only Sitwell standing by the door. Hands grabs Steve’s shoulders and shove him forward. 

Dodging is out of the question, and the last coherent thought Steve has is that this is going to hurt.

**

“I think you set a record.”

Steve blinks several times and, even with that, it still takes him a while to focus, for the blurry shape beside him to resolve into James.“I was wrong.”

James frowns. “About what?”

“Thought it was gonna hurt.”

“Wait until the drugs wear off.” He leans back in his seat, his eyes on Steve. “Anyway, Starks checking to see if anyone’s been in the infirmary more in the first six months of their sentence. There’s a betting pool if you want in on it.”

“I’m good.” Steve tries to shift, but stops at the pulling sensation. “Spent a lot of my childhood in hospitals. Guess I’m making up for the last ten or so years of being healthy.”

“You know, your life would be a lot easier if you didn’t fight. Because at some point, he’s going to get his hands on you for real, and he’s gonna be making up for lost time. Sitwell wasn’t gonna let him kill you. Not when he’s officially on shift.”

“I can’t give in. I don’t give in to bullies.”

“You got stabbed, Rogers. That was him being _nice_. He made sure not to hit anything vital.”

“He’ll probably regret that.”

“You’re certifiable, aren’t you?” James shakes his head.

Steve’s quiet for a while then he looks up at James through his lashes. “So what are you doing here?”

“He and Sitwell are buddies. Sitwell’s here a lot. Figured if you’re going to lose this fight, you should at least be conscious enough to be able to fight back. Besides.” He holds up his pointer finger which has a bandage on it. “Ouch.”

“I don’t need you babysitting me.”

“Babysitting? Nah. I’m _recovering_ Now, go back to sleep before you pop a stitch getting all swelled up with pride.”

“Why do you even care?”

“I don’t.”

“I don't believe you.”

“You don't have to. That’s the beauty of life.”

“You’re kind of a jerk.”

“More than kind of. “ James shrugs. “Straight up jerk, I think.”

“Is it because he can’t hurt you?”

“Nah. There’s nothing I can do to help you. He and I are blind spots when it comes to each other. He can’t touch me, I can’t touch him. Besides, he only cares about the lifers. Rapists. Murderers. He likes the ones he thinks are dangerous.”

Steve’s mouth flattens into a line. “Lucky me.”

“I can try to call in a few favors.”

“I told you. I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, so you say, Superman. But the large rust-colored spot in the yard kinda puts lie to that, pal.” He leans back in his chair. “I got a question for you, Rogers.”

Steve waits, giving James a look. He’s smiling, head tilted. “What?”

“You don’t seem to be too broken up about your wife.”

Steve looks away. “That’s not a question.”

“Did you love her? You said you married her because she thought she was in a way. Just wondered if it was a real thing.”

“Are you accusing me of something?” Steve straightens despite the pain in his side. It’s enough that everyone knows Rumlow’s claimed Steve as his property. Anyone, even James, suspecting anything else really will get him killed.

“Relax.” James pushes lightly at Steve’s shoulder and it takes too much energy for Steve to resist, so he settles back against the pillow. “Lots of people don’t love the people they’re married to. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

“I loved her.” He did. He doesn’t lie, but he doesn’t tell the whole truth. It wasn’t the kind of love that made a marriage, not a real one. He wanted her and she wanted him, but even that wasn’t really enough for either of them. But Steve made a vow that he wouldn’t break. 

“I think you did. But I don’t think she was the love of your life.”

“There’s no ‘one love’.” 

“Yeah.” James shakes his head. “There is. And I think you believe that. I’ve got your number, Rogers. Can’t believe in right and wrong like you do without believing in love.”

“What makes you think you know me so well?”

“Buddy, I can read you like a book, like I’ve known you our whole lives.”

“Well, you’re wrong. You don’t know anything about me.”

James reaches out and runs his thumb along Steve’s cheekbone. “Who you are is written all over your face.” 

Steve sucks in a sharp breath at the feel of James’s calloused fingers, at the heated shock that jolts through him at the touch. James swallows then moves his hand and taps Steves bicep. The same feeling shivers through Steve and his chest tightens.

“And your heart’s right here on your sleeve.”

Steve pulls his arm away. He feels shaky. “You don’t know me, James. No matter what you think.”

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“Call me Bucky.”

“Why would I do that?”

“It’s my name. Nickname.”

“Why?” 

“Story for another time.” Bucky stands up and reaches out like he’s going to pat Steve on the shoulder, but he stops before he makes contact. “Try not to get yourself killed tonight, okay?”

“Told you, I can-”

“Take care of yourself. I know. I got it. See ya, Rogers.”

In prison, a man’ll do most anything to keep his mind occupied.

Steve lies to get out of the hospital wing as soon as he can. Between James’s - Bucky’s - warning and the desire to get away from the maniacal light in Zola’s eyes, he says he feels much better, biting the inside of his cheek against the pain. He walks out of the infirmary and directly into someone’s back. He turns and, because Steve’s luck isn’t bad enough, it’s the warden. He looks Steve over, clearly noticing the wince.

“You’re Rogers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you. Funny. You don’t look like much.” His expression one of clear disapproval. “But then, I don’t think much of murderers.”

“Not that I'm looking for your approval, sir, but I guess it’s it’s a good thing for me that I’m not one.”

“They told me you were delusional. Maybe you’re seeing the wrong kind of doctor. Maybe we should have you see someone.”

“I don’t think that’s really necessary, sir.”

“Is that so?” Pierce smiles, eyes bright with humor. “What makes you think that?”

“First of all, he’s employed by a system that sentenced me to two lifetimes, even though that’s physically impossible, and is really no different from life without parole. Secondly I’m stuck here for life, so I’ll be here a lot longer than you, and for a crime I didn’t commit, and, unless your doctor intends to rectify that situation, he and I have nothing to talk about.”

“I think the delusion of innocence is worth dealing with. That would make your stay with us much more pleasant.”

“It’s a maximum security prison, Warden.” Steve enjoys the surprise on his face, even though he doesn’t know why the warden wouldn’t expect him to know who he was. “If I thought it was pleasant, I’d start thinking I was crazy.”

“Rogers!” Both Steve and the warden start at the bellow, which is followed by Stark coming around the corner. “You’re supposed to be in the yard. You were supposed to be there twenty minutes ago.” He glances at the warden and gives him a serious nod. “Warden Pierce. Discipline and routine, just like you always say.”

“Of course. Good job, Stark.”

Stark salutes and then snaps his fingers. “Rogers! Now!”

Steve nods at the warden and moves past him, getting in front of Stark and heading toward the yard. “Thank you,” he says softly.

“Don’t thank me. Probably just delayed it. Might have made it worse.”

“I can live with that right now.” Steve glances back over his shoulder. “How’d you know?”

“Lang was outside the warden’s office when the warden came out. Zola was with him, trying to get him to make you stay. The guy’s obsession with you and Barnes is creepy.”

“Barnes?”

“Pretty sure Zola used him as a lab rate too, until Barnes worked out at the gym enough that it was clear Sitwell couldn’t take him in a fight. Guess you just need to put on a hundred pounds of muscle.”

“Haven’t managed it yet.” They get to the yard and Steve looks around until he spots Bucky. “Thanks again, Stark.”

“Try not to piss anyone off, huh? For at least a week.”

Steve salutes and heads over to the bleachers. Bucky is sitting down and Steve settles beside him, not looking at him. “Told you I could take care of myself.”

“That you did.”

Steve darts a glance at him. “What?”

“How much should you still be in the infirmary?”

“Not nearly as much as I need to be away from Zola and Sitwell.”

Bucky leans back with his hands behind him. It’s something like Bucky’s go-to pose and it takes a lot for Seve not to stare at him. He turns slightly and puts his knee up on the bench. He looks at Bucky then down at his hands. His fingers are long, and Steve does his best not to think about how it felt when Bucky had touched him.

Shaking his head to clear it, he’s surprised to catch Bucky watching him. “You really are innocent, aren’t you?”

It’s not spoken like a question, but Steve answers anyway. “I really am.”

“Huh. You got any skills?”

“You mean besides folding towels?”

“And pissing people off, yeah.”

“I’m good with numbers.”

“You smoke?”

“No.”

“You ever play the ponies?”

“No!”

“Jesus. Did you do anything bad ever? Jaywalk? Fart?”

“Suddenly my worth is based on smoking cigarettes and betting?”

“That’s how you _survive_ in here. We’re gonna get you fixed up. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

“I barely know you.”

“Well, I promise I’m trustworthy.” He straightens up. “We just have to find something you’re good at. That’s helpful.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Hey, I’m trustworthy.” Bucky kicks Steve’s ankle, letting it settle back against his for a second. Steve tries not to imagine what prolonging the contact would feel like.”Not a miracle worker.”

**

Steve goes back to the laundry the next day. The smell of bleach hangs strong in the air, burns his nostrils. He hadn’t missed the smell. He works his entire shift in wary peace. Rumlow and his cronies stay away from him. After that he goes out to the yard and walks along, picking up rocks that catch his eye. 

He makes his way over to Bucky and leans against the bleachers. “You know much about geology?”

Bucky looks over, one eyebrow raised. “What?”

“Geology. Rocks. Oil. The earth. Time and pressure making new things.”

“I know every time the earth spins I’m one day closer to getting out of here in a box.”

“I was thinking more about rocks than that.” Steve knows Bucky’s cataloguing his bruises to see if he’s healing or if it’s somehow gotten worse. It’s still the same, still too pale with dark circles under his eyes. 

“I can honestly say I know exactly fuck-all about rocks.”

“You can do a lot of things with rocks. Build walls. Castles. Mountains. Homes.”

“Prisons.” Bucky’s looking at Steve still, only this time he seems to be looking for some indication he’s lost his mind. “Not a fan.”

“I need something.”

“”Rocks?” He points to the ground. “There you go. No charge.”

“A hammer. Rock hammer.”

“So you can bash Rumlow’s head in?”

“No.”

“But you understand my concern.”

“Get it and you'll see. You think it’s too much, you don’t give it to me.”

“So I’m out what it costs me?”

“I pay either way.”

“How do you know I’m not just taking your money?”

Steve smiles, even though it hurts his face. “You seem like an honest man.”

Bucky smiles then laughs. “I can’t decide if you’re a smart man or the dumbest one I’ve ever met.”

“I think most people that know me would say the same thing.”

Bucky looks at Steve for a long moment, and Steve feels the same heat as before course through his veins. He bites his lower lip, swallowing hard as Bucky’s eyes dart down to his mouth. “All right, Rogers. A rock hammer, huh?”

“A rock hammer.”

“And where do I find such a thing?”

Steve shrugs. “Anywhere that sells rocks.”

“Yeah, well, don’t forget the rest of us when you dig your way out. ‘Course, I imagine we’ll all be near dead by then.”

“I’ll crawl out of here with my cane.” Steve grins again. “Hopefully I won’t leave my false teeth behind.”

“You’re bonafide crazy, aren’t ya?”

“Don’t have to be crazy to be here, but it helps, right?”

“That it does.”

Steve gives Bucky another shrug and walks away, hands shoved in his pockets. He hasn’t done much with rocks since he was a poor, sickly kid without friends, but with a nearby library. Two lifetimes is definitely going to require a hobby.

**

Banner comes by with the library cart, handing Steve a book he didn’t ask for. He takes it as well as the cloth-wrapped object he gets as well. It’s a woodshop rag, which means it’s from Bucky. He opens it carefully, the hammer fitting perfectly in his hand. There’s a note as well with Bucky admitting it’s probably not good for murder. 

He hides the hammer carefully and quickly as the horn blows and the cell doors open. They line up outside on the walkway, and Bucky doesn’t glance at Steve. As soon as they fall in and turn, Steve’s careful to not let the guards see his smile.

**

He’s not sure if staring at the walls is better than counting the hours he stares at the walls. At least one requires some rudimentary math skills. There are names etched into the wall - Clint, Scott, Peter - and he wonders if they’re the only ones who’ve been stuck behind these particular bars. Wonders if they got out on parole or out through the morgue.

“Lights out!”

The industrial lights click off in stages, the last at Steve’s end of the cell block. After a few minutes of sitting, of staring in silence, Steve gets to his feet and goes over to the wall. Not far from Clint’s name, Steve puts the rock hammer to the wall and carefully carves an “S”. He traces it with his finger, smoothes out the rough edges. He sticks the hammer into the wall again and pulls it down to start the “T”. There’s a soft scratch of metal on rock as he makes the line, but when he pulls the hammer away from the stone, a chunk of wall comes away with it, falling to the floor.

“Shit,” he whispers, scooping it up off the ground. Sitting down on his bed, he turns the rock over and over. Even slight pressure on the edge of it sends small pieces crumbling.

Steve grins at the pile of dust at his feet. He carefully gathers it up and stashes it, along with what’s left of the rock, in his pockets of his jeans.

**

“I understand you’re a man who can get things.” Steve’s sitting next to Bucky as the movie plays. Neither of them acknowledge that they’re slightly too close, knees and thighs touching. They normally don’t sit together, but here in the dark where everyone's focus is on the fourth showing of _Diamond Horseshoe_ that month, Steve risks it.

Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off the screen, doesn’t pull away. “I’ve been known to do some procuring.”

“Can you get me Betty Grable?”

Bucky knocks his knee against Steve’s. “Sure. It’ll cost ya.” 

“Wouldn’t have expected otherwise.”

“Take me a while.”

“How long?”

“Gotta come all the way from Hollywood. If I had her just sitting around handy, I wouldn’t be hanging out with you mooks.” He doesn’t look at Steve, but there’s a smile curving his lips.

“Thanks, Buck.” Steve pats Bucky’s knee and pulls his hand away quickly. Bucky’s eyes fall from the screen for the first time and he looks down at his knee. Steve can feel the flush rising on his cheeks, growing hotter as Bucky looks back up at Betty Grable, his fingers tracing over the spot where Steve had touched him.

Steve gets out of his seat and ducks out of the theater. He’s headed back to his cell when Rumlow and four of his friends step out of the shadows and surround him.

“That how it is, Rogers?” Rumlow shoves Steve back against one of the other guys who then shoves Steve back toward Rumlow. “You think Barnes and his buddies can save you?”

Rumlow shoves him again at a different one of his goons, then another until Steve’s bouncing between them like one of the pinball machines he’d seen. 

“Barnes ain’t nothing. His connections are all on the outside these days. In here?” Rumlow grabs Steve and shoves him into the projector room. “In here, you belong to me.”

One of Rumlow’s guys shoves the guy working the projector out of the room as Rumlow shoves Steve down against a cabinet. Two of them grab Steve’s hands and force him to this knees.. 

“Got a good idea for your smart mouth tonight.” Rumlow unbuttons his dungarees and Steve greens toothily.

“You stick that in my mouth, I’m gonna bite it off.” One of guys holding his arms grabs Steve’s head and slams it back against the counter. Steve bites his tongue hard enough to bleed to keep from making a sound. Rumlow bends down as he grabs Steve’s chin.

“Hello, sunshine. I’m gonna fuck you. Then my friends are all gonna take a turn.” He grabs Steve by the throat and lifts him until he’s standing. He doesn’t go any further than to get Steve on his tiptoes. “You are a pain in my ass, and I’m gonna be sure we’re a pain in yours.”

“That…” Steve’s voice is quiet, strangled in Rumlow’s grip. “How you…”

Rumlow drops Steve. He goes down hard on his feet then onto his rear. “You got something you need to say before I make you regret not dying?”

“Just wondering.” Steve coughs and rubs his throat. “If that’s what you have to do to prove you’re a man. Because where I come from that’s not what a man does. So tell me, did you get locked in here because you can’t find a woman and need relief? Or are you in here because sticking your dick in someone’s ass is really what you want?”

Rumlow roars and hauls Steve off the ground. Steve doesn’t have time to defend against Rumlow’s first blow, the fist into his solar plexus pushes the air out of him. “You’re gonna die this time, Rogers. And I’m gonna fucking dance on your corpse.”

He spits and it lands on Steve’s cheek, clings to his eyelashes. After that it’s impact as Rumlow backhands Steve across the face then throws Steve back against the cabinet. His friends have backed away, obviously letting Rumlow take the lead. 

There’s more after that. Rumlow and his friends. Fists and kicks and maybe more. Just a few slams from the film reels and a kick under the jaw to make Steve pass out, the sound of the end of the film reel flipping noisily in the projector the last sound he hears..

**

He wakes up in his own cell and not the infirmary, even though every inch of his body lets him know that’s exactly where he should be. He squints at the ceiling, but his vision stays blurry, so he doesn’t risk turning his head.

“You know, you were locked in your cell.” It’s Stark’s voice. “No one knows how you got from the movie to here. No one knows why your flesh is more black and blue than, well, flesh-colored.” There’s the clink of keys and then the sound of the cell door opening. “I have to know what you did to piss these guys off so much. Too much starch in their underwear?”

“Jus’ lucky, guess.” His words are slurred, mouth hurting, tongue swollen.

“Mouthy and stubborn. You know the saying discretion is the better part of valor? He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day?”

Steve reaches up and touches his nose, feeling the bump of the broken bone. “Start running, never stop.”

“I’m beginning to think you’ve got a death wish.” “No.” Steve turns his head, the motion pulling at the bruises on his throat. “Don’t like bullies.”

“So you stop them with your face?” Stark slides a hand under Steve’s neck and helps him sit up. “Here. We’ll try to keep you out of Zola’s evil clutches.” He shows Steve two white pills in his hand. “Open wide.”

Steve takes them, then accepts the tin cup of water. Swallowing burns, but he manages to get them down. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. And I mean that literally.”

“Won’t.” Stark eases Steve back down on the bed. “Why’re you being nice to me?”

“You did the whole judge and jury thing. Got your punishment. I can’t do anything about the prisoners and how you punish each other, but pretty sure a guard was involved with this, and we’ve got no business in it. Turn a blind eye now and then? Sure. But you perpetrate it, and you’re doing what you guys are in here for - thinking you're the arbitrator of justice.”

“You really believe that?”

“Hell no. I just really hate Sitwell.”

Steve coughs a laugh, or tries to, but the pain in his ribs turns it into a near-sob.

“Yeah. Don’t do that. And don’t be surprised if you’re pissing blood for a while.” 

Steve closes his eyes. “Right. Thanks again.”

“And you might want to keep away from Barnes for a while. He’s not real pleased with you right now.”

“I’ll just lie here and suffer in peace then.”

“Probably the best plan you’ve had since you got here.”

Get busy living, or get busy dying.

Steve vomits blood that night, which puts him in the infirmary. Banner stops by, offering him books to read. The fingers of his left hand are broken and sprained, and his eyes have actually swollen shut, so he turns him down. By the end of the first week, Banner’s sitting beside him, reading to him.

“Why are you doing this?”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Steve glances at him through still swollen eyes. “Yeah. I guess we are.”

“And Bucky said to look after you.”

“I don’t need to be looked after.”

“Maybe not, but not one of us trusts Sitwell or Rumlow not to come in and make sure you have an accident, so while Sitwell’s on duty, you get visitors.”

Steve sighs. “Okay. Keep reading.”

**

When he finally gets back to his cell a few weeks later, when there’s nowhere left for Zola to poke or prod him, Betty Grable is lying stretched out on Steve’s bed. He smiles and smoothes one of the corners of the poster. She’s in her white bathing suit and heels, hair up and hip cocked. 

He eases the top of the poster out from under the pillow. Moving over to the wall across from the bed, Steve removes the picture he’d ripped from a _National Geographic_ magazine to uncover the missing chunk of wall. 

He hangs Betty carefully, making sure she’s centered over the spot. He adjusts it so it lays flat then grabs his bible, easing the rock hammer out from the shape he’d carefully cut out of the pages. He looks at it then the poster. He salutes her seriously. “Betty, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

**

Steve’s fairly sure it’s Bucky who got him on the roof detail, since most of the guys with them are Bucky’s friends. It’s hot and smelly and the closest to freedom Steve’s felt in the years he’s been in Shield.

Sitwell and three of his cronies are standing off to the side in the shade of one of the towers. The inmates aren’t supposed to talk, so Steve can't help but hear their conversation. Sitwell is ranting about an inheritance of more money than probably most of the men in the prison can imagine. He rages about the taxes and the government.

Steve keeps stopping work, mop held in his hand. The rest of the guys hiss at him, but Steve can suddenly see something that might be a future. Or what amounts to one in prison.

“Do you trust your wife?”

There are suddenly three guns pointed at his face. The rest of the inmates are silent as Sitwell steps right up to Steve. “What did you say?”

“I’m just wondering if you trust her. Because if you do-”

Sitwell grabs Steve by his shirt and shoves him against the low wall at the edge of the roof. Steve isn’t afraid. He’s forgotten what fear feels like in the wake of Rumlow and his friends.

“You can make a one time gift. Tax-free. To your spouse.” Steve talks fast, not doubting that Sitwell could shove him over and call it an accident. “Which I know you’d realize when you researched it. But I could…. If you got the paperwork. I could take care of it. For you. It’s what I did.”

Sitwell pulls Steve upright. His eyes are narrowed and Steve’s heart hasn't quite resumed its regular rhythm.

“I’d only… well, if you could maybe get us three beers each? After we’re done with the roof. That’s all I’d ask.”

“You’re asking a lot. What if you’re lying to me?”

“No offense, but how would lying to you benefit me? I don’t have anywhere to go, and you’ve got all the power.”

Sitwell releases Steve’s shirt. “You’re right.” He shoves Steve back toward the others. “Get back to work, ladies. We’re losing daylight.”

They finish for the day, all of them smelling of tar and sunlight. Sitwell walks Steve back to his cell and stares at him as the door closes. 

“If you’re shitting me, Rogers, you’re a dead man.”

Steve doesn’t smile, but it takes an effort. “I’ve got two life sentences. I’m telling the truth, but I have to tell you, death isn’t much of a threat.”

**

Steve gets pulled out of the yard by one of the guards he doesn’t know. A quick look shows him Rumlow’s still in the yard, so something settles in Steve’s chest. The guard shoves him into a chair in one of the guard break rooms. He moves away from Steve, settling against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Steve looks over as the door opens.

Rumlow walks in and slaps a folder on the table in front of Steve. He pulls out the papers and looks them over. “I’ll need a pen.”

**

Things change. It’s clear that Sitwell’s called Rumlow off, because the worst Steve gets is glares across the yard or the cafeteria. Bucky shakes his head at Steve as he tosses the baseball back to Jones. “Seriously, I don’t know how you managed it. You went from Rumlow’s bitch and everybody’s shit list to sitting on a golden throne.”

“Pretty sure there’s no golden anything around here. Besides, who’d want this kingdom?”

Bucky shakes his head again, catching the ball from Morita. “Worse things than being on the thrown around here. Like not being on the throne.”

“I’m just trying to survive.”

Bucky holds up his glove and turns to Steve. “Good. That’s all you can do in here.” He glances at Rumlow. “Sometimes dogs turn on their owners.”

“Rumlow won’t bother me.”

“I’m not sure if you’re brave, stupid, or crazy.”

“Depends on the day. Personally I’d say I just don’t have anything left to lose.”

Hope is a dangerous thing. It can drive a man insane.

“Rogers!” Stark’s voice echoes across the yard. “Over here! Now.”

Steve shrugs at Bucky and goes. He remembers always glancing up at the guards and the guns when he realizes he isn’t doing it as he crosses the yard. He wonders when he stopped.

Stark takes him to the library and Steve frowns. “Not sure I understand what I’m doing here.”

“Me either, but apparently someone’s got the impression that you’re hot shit. You’re no longer laundry. You’ve been reassigned.”

Stark walks away. Steve frowns and walks through the storage room and into the glorified closet that is the library. Bruce is standing over the cart, loading up books. 

“Steve!” He smiles. “We’re going to have to figure out how to divide up the labor. You feel like loading or unloading the cart?”

“Is this it?”

“I mean, it ain’t much, but…”

“No. Nothing against it. Or, well, it’s pathetic, but that’s not your fault. Just. Why do you need help?:”

“Well, I reckon I don’t. But I never turn down company. I mean, Ms. Natasha’s a great companion, but not the best conversationalist.”

Steve glances to where Banner’s pointing. There’s a spider web in the corner, and a large black widow there, dusty light from the barred window making the black and red gleam. “But when she talks, you listen?”

Banner laughs. “Damn right.”

“Okay.” Steve takes a deep breath and straightens. “Where do we start?”

**

“I figured it out. You’re crazy.” Bucky sits on the floor and leans against the bookcase of National Geographics.

“Why?” Steve finishes the letter he’s writing and folds it up into an envelope. “Because I keep believing I can make things change?”

“Because half of these idiots can’t read. Unless you’re getting in some of those new dirty magazines Hopkins was talkin’ about, you’re wasting your time.”

“Not sure the Warden would allow that.” Steve settles next to Bucky on the floor. “But I can try.”

“How about you try not to actively get yourself into trouble.” Bucky knocks his knee against Steve’s, leaving it pressed against it. “I know it’s probably impossible.”

“I’m capable of not getting into trouble.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Steve bumps Bucky’s elbow, not pulling away either. “That’s not nice at all.”

“I'm in prison. What part of that leads you to believe I’m nice?”

“I’m in prison. I’m nice.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “But a nice one.”

Bucky laughs, and Steve can’t help but watch as he tilts his head forward, the nape of his neck bare, the bristles at his neckline lighter than the rest of his hair, and looking soft enough that Steve’s tempted to reach out and touch. When Bucky raises his head, he turns to Steve, too close. Dangerously close. “Rumlow hasn’t been giving you any trouble, has he?”

“N-no.”

“You’d tell me if he was.”

“Pretty sure you’d be _able_ to tell if he was. He likes to show off his work.”

“I'd do it, you know. Make him have an accident. It’d be easy now that the guards are coming to you for help.”

Steve licks his lips, breathing unsteady as Bucky watches his tongue. “W-warden.”

Bucky pulls back slightly. “What?”

“Warden Pierce asked me to do his taxes.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.” Steve grins. “Came to me himself.” He leans closer, whispering in Bucky’s ear. “Our esteemed warden is not the fine, upstanding, god-fearing man he pretends to be.”

Bucky shivers and he tilts his head, exposing the side of his throat. Steve’s breath bringing goosebumps onto his skin. “I’m not even the slightest bit surprised.”

“No?”

Bucky turns his head slightly, looking at Steve. They’re even closer now, a brath apart. Bucky’s eyes are dark as they drop down to Steve’s mouth. He shakes his head slightly. “No.” Bucky’s eyes close and Steve’s body sways forward.

“Rogers!” Steve jerks away from Bucky and hurries to his feet. Banner’s standing in the doorway to what’s essentially Steve’s office. “Come here!’

Steve hurries out to meet Banner, Bucky right behind him. “What is it?”

“Stark and Lang have something for you.”

Steve frowns but follows Banner. They go to the mail office where Stark, Lang, and the warden are waiting. Stark raises an eyebrow when they walk in. There are several boxes spread across the floor, the wooden lids pried off of them.

“Books?” Bucky asks.

“Books.” Steve grins. “We needed some new reading material. I wrote some letters.”

“Some.” Banner laughs. “He’s been writing a letter a week.”

“Two hundred bucks to spend.” Lang hands Steve a check and a letter.”

Steve reads the letter and shows it to Banner. “They hope I’m happy and will stop writing.”

“Will you?”

Steve grins again. “Not on your life. Think I’ll write more.”

Pierce raises an eyebrow. “Do you intend to get everything in life by annoying people?”

“It seems to work, sir.” Steve squats down and thumbs through the contents of one of the boxes. 

Pierce huffs an annoyed sound. “I have a meeting with some businessmen. I want this cleared out by the time I return.” He dismisses Stark and Lang with a nod and they each pick up a box of books. Bucky and Banner do the same. Pierce looks at Steve, his eyes narrowed. “Make sure of it.”

He turns on his heel and heads down the stairs. Pierce watches Bucky as he walks away. Steve keeps looking through the box. Pierce seems to have the same kind of obsession with Bucky that Zola used to, but it doesn’t seem to have faded. Bucky’s protected though, so Pierce won’t touch him. He just watches him all the time like he owns him.

After a few moments, Steve gets to his feet and locks the door, sliding the deadbolt as well. He feels like he’s in a dream, like he’s anywhere but in Shield, in prison, in this life.

There’s a record player in the box along with several records. It’s clear the adage of music taming the savage beast was on the mind of whoever sent the box. It’s all classical and opera, nothing that anyone would think would speak to the kind of men in prison.

Still, Steve sets up the record player and slides the vinyl platter out of the paper sleeve. He doesn’t know much German, but he understands enough to laugh at the irony of _Leonore, oder Der Triumph der ehelichen Liebe_. The triumph of marital love is the last thing Steve understands.

He sets the disc on the player and turns it on, setting up the loudspeaker microphone against the speaker, the needle on the record. Suddenly the sound of Beethoven, the sound of a chorus of men’s voices fills the air in the room, in Steve’s head, in the air surrounding Shield prison.

Steve sits back and stares at the ceiling, letting it wash over him. There’s no other sound, as if everything else has shut down. No machinery, no voices, no orders, no sirens, no whistles. 

He barely notices Sitwell at the door, but seeing the fury on his expression, Steve smiles and turns the volume up. He’s not sure how long he sits there, how long the peace lasts before it’s broken by the sound of Shattered glass, of Sitwell’s threats, of Peirce's hard anger. 

Steve smiles, a million miles away, even as he’s marched down and thrown in the dark of the hole.

**

Steve’s good at writing letters, good at convincing people to do the right thing. The books and magazines and records keep coming in until his offices becomes part of the library and his office is relocated to a room off Pierce’s office.

Bucky and Banner mostly run the library since Steve finds himself busier and busier when the warden starts talking to contractors, putting prisoners to work for kickbacks and outright embezzlement. He passes it off as a rehabilitation program and a community service, but Steve knows it’s really just Pierce lining his own pockets.

Steve’s the one who has to explain how not to get caught, how to play the long game. He makes a man out of a few forms and a little research. It’s a victimless crime, Pierce assures him, which Steve knows means that he never planned on anything but stealing the money. 

It’s possible Steve might have encouraged the plan. Designed it.

And at night, he keeps digging.

He does spend a fair share of his days in the library, especially when Bruce makes parole. He takes Natasha with him, and it seems ridiculous for a spider being gone to add to the loss of something from the library, but it does anyway.

Spending time in the library means spending time with Bucky. They talk about life before, about plans for the library, for the future.

“I don’t have a future, Rogers.” Bucky smiles, but there’s nothing humorous or happy in it. “I’ve been denied parole three times, and chances are it’ll be denied every time until they don't have a choice but to let me out or ship me off somewhere to die.”

“You don't really believe that.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“You have to believe something good is going to happen. We’re not human beings without hope.”

Hope is a good thing. Maybe the best of things

“We’re not human beings in here. We’re polite animals because we want to get fed and we don’t want to get beaten.”

“You can’t really believe that.”

“Sure I do.”

“If there wasn’t hope, then Bruce wouldn’t have had Natasha, then people who didn’t need anything from you wouldn’t be loyal to you or friends with you. If there wasn’t hope, there wouldn’t be a library.”

“The library is just pure damn Steve Rogers stubbornness.”

“Maybe.” Steve gestures to all the tables filed with prisoners. Some have books, some have comics, some writing letters or novels or a million things inbetween. “But that’s hope.”

“That’s escape.”

“And you don’t think they’re the same?”

“I think you’re crazy as a June bug.”

“Maybe.” Steve smiles and reaches through the empty space on the shelf between the books to tap Bucky on the nose. “Maybe not.”

Bucky snorts. “Idiot.”

“Eh, you like me anyway.”

Bucky catches Steve’s eyes and holds them, not looking away at all. The dangerous heat Bucky always brings up in Steve fills him up, and the things he knows he can’t want flood through him. No matter what he wants, no matter what he hopes, this is prison and the truth of the matter is that want is often a thing of necessity, not truth.

“Yeah, you’re not too bad.” Bucky looks away, pushing his cart of books forward. “Certainly hasn’t been dull having you around.”

**

One of the books they get is _The Farmers Almanac_. Steve doesn’t put it in his log, just smuggles it into his room and keeps it behind the poster along with his pen. He follows the book and follows the weather, tracking the accuracy.

And he keeps digging.

They find out about Banner from Stark, who hears it from Lang. Lang had transferred to a minimum security hospital detainment center, and seen Banner. He’d been shot by police when he’d tried to rob a grocery store, shooting one of the clerks. Stark says that Banner claims the gun going off was an accident, but no one’s surprised when Baner shows up in Shield, a brand new life sentence under his belt.

He’s assigned to the library again because he’s still not healed enough for anything else. Steve watches him carefully set books on the cart and can’t help but ask. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you here again?”

Banner sighs before setting the book in his hands down and walking over to sit across from Steve. “How old do you think I am, Steve?”

“Fifty? Sixty?”

“Sixty three. And I’ve been here since I was fifteen. I’d been here thirty-three years by the time you came along. I don’t know cars or jobs or people. This? Shield? It’s all I know. This is the closest thing I have to a home, to a family. I’m not made for out there.”

“That’s the world. That’s where you’re _meant_ to be.”

“ _This_ is my world.” Bruce gets up and goes back to the cart. “You’ll realize soon enough it’s yours too.”

Steve stares in his direction long after Bruce has gone off to deliver books to the cells. Finally, Steve shakes his head and leaves the library behind him, turning off the light on the way out the door. 

He gets to his office and works out the deposits, dividing them between banks, never the same two or three too close together. He puts the books in the safe after Pierce opens it, and heads back to his cell, dropping off Pierce’s clothes at the laundry on the way.

He walks past Rumlow’s cell and his usual threats as he heads to his own. He sits down as the call comes for lights out. The loud sound of each set of lights hangs in the air for a moment then dissipates into the darkness.

**

A kid transfers in with Banner, too young and too cocky by half. Steve likes him, sees himself in him a little. The self he always wanted to be. Parker’s full of stories, truths, and lies. And hope. He’s only in for a couple of years, a short stint that probably won’t be his last.

Stark takes him under his wing like he did Steve, but something about Parker sparks some sort of paternal instinct Steve never inspired. No one’s sure if it’s Parker’s youth or his intelligence or just his earnest attitude that has Stark so focused on him.

When Parker shows up one day, silent and bruised, Steve looks at Bucky and everyone at the table is careful not to glance at Rumlow. Steve’s hands ball into fists beneath the table, but Bucky touches Steve’s knee lightly and shakes his head.

“What’s the matter, Rogers?” Rumlow calls across the cafeteria. “Jealous? Missing me? Be glad to give you what Parker got.”

A whistle blows out and Stark’s beside Rumlow’s table. “Shut it, Rumlow, or I’ll shut it for you.” He glances at Steve’s table, his eyes narrowing as his gaze lands on Parker. Peter ducks his head, not managing to hide his wince. Stark walks past them, eyes straight ahead, and keeps walking.

Bucky digs his fork into his food and bends his head down to eat. “Rumlow’s a dead man walking.”

“He got the death penalty?” Parker asks.

Steve looks at the satisfied smirk on Rumlow’s face. “He does now.”

**

Rumlow’s transferred out two days later. He’ll never walk again, never feed himself again. He probably wishes he was dead. 

Steve stares out the window of the warden’s office. Someone walks up behind him and he tenses, only relaxing slightly as he realizes it’s Stark standing at his side. 

“I’m sorry no one did that for you.”

“Parker’s a kid.”

“Not really.” Stark leans forward, his head on the glass. 

“No,” Steve agrees. “Not anymore.” After a few minutes of silence, he glances at Stark. “I never expected it. And you did take care of me. Probably more than you should have.”

“You kept trying to get yourself killed.”

“I kept refusing to give in.”

Stark looks unimpressed. “He won’t be bothering anyone anymore.”

“Why didn’t they kill him, do you think?” Steve asks. “Whoever it was that did this.”

“Killing’s too good for him.”

Steve nods, frowning. “That’s cruel.”

Stark pushes off the window and heads to the door. “So was he.”

**

“Hey, Mr. Rogers?”

Steve rolls his eyes and looks at Peter. “You can call me Steve.”

“NO. No. I really can’t.” Parker’s almost always in the library, absorbing everything he can, even though Steve gets the impression Parker’s not really learning anything he doesn’t already know.

Steve shakes his head. The bad thing about Parker being there is that when he is, usually Bucky isn’t. Today’s different, and Bucky’s handing Steve the new books from the box that arrived in the mail. Their fingers brush every so often, and Steve feels like he’s touched a livewire every time.

“What are you in for?”

Steve’s eyes dart from Bucky to Parker. “What?”

“I mean, I know everyone here is innocent. I got that my first day. But what were you _accused_ of?”

“He’s got you there, Stevie.” Bucky kicks his foot up onto the table and Steve knocks it off.

“Murder. Just like at least half of the guys in this joint.”

“One I heard about?”

“What are you, kid? Fifteen? I’ve been here as long as you’ve been alive.”

“So. There’s no harm in telling me then, right?”

Bucky’s smile is just as irritatingly innocent as Peter’s. Steve flips him off. “I’m here because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was drunk and too close to killing my wife and her lover. Someone did it for me, and I took the fall.”

Parker frowns. “What’d you do?”

“I told you, kid. I _didn't_ kill them.”

“No. Before. Your job. What’d you do before?” Parker looks from Steve to Bucky and back, his voice high with emotions Steve can’t quite identify. “What was your job. Were you a banker? You weren’t a banker, were you?”

Steve’s eyes widen, but before he can say anything, Bucky snaps at Peter. “Why do you ask that?”

“Was he… Did he work at a country club, Mr. Rogers? The man your wife cheated with?” Parker can’t keep still, obviously upset and agitated. “Did he?”

Steve nods dumbly. “How do you know that?”

“When I was in Jemson before? I did a stint there for B&E. I broke my leg, so I was there recovering, and there was this guy. Schmidt. He was really creepy. He liked to talk. Always talking and bragging. Always. Talking about things he did. Things he was going to do. Things… Things he got away with.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but he does move over to the table and sit next to Bucky. Bucky reaches over and squeezes Steve’s knee quickly before moving his hand away. Steve wants to grab it, hold on tight. Bucky looks back at Peter. “And?”

“And he was talking about this guy who got sent up the river instead of him. Some dumb mug - sorry, sir - who got sent up the river instead of him. This banker who went down, got two life sentences because he got tagged for killing his wife and her lover.”

Steve swallows, glad he’s already sitting. Glad of the pressure of Bucky’s knee against his. 

“He said the guy owed him money and refused to pay, so he went to the guy’s house. He planned to rob him, but he got there and the guy was in the middle of, well, he didn’t say it nicely, but he meant having sex. He walked in on that and they didn’t hear him, so he just killed ‘em both. Because he could. He said ‘bang, bang bang. Bang, bang, bang’. Then he reloaded and did it again. One more time for each of them.”

Bucky’s face is dark and angry. “If you’re shitting us, kid…”

“I’m not, Mr. Barnes. I swear.”

Steve can’t breathe. Being innocent is one thing, knowing that it’s not a trick of his drunk mind, wishful thinking, is something else. Knowing someone else _knows_ the truth. Knows Steve is innocent. Knowing that someone out there knows he’s deliberately ruined Steve’s life.

“He confessed?” Steve’s voice shakes. “He told you.”

“I swear. I swear, Mr. Rogers.”

“I have… I have to talk to the warden.”

“Steve.” Bucky grabs his arm and holds it tight enough that Steve can’t move. “Slow down a minute.”

“He can prove I’m _innocent_ , Buck.”

“Yeah. Maybe. But if you run off to Pierce, he’s not going to listen. He’s not going to want to. You know how he is. And you know you’re his golden goose.”

“He’ll listen.” Steve shakes off Bucky’s grip. “He has to. It’s the truth.”

He hurries to the Warden's office, pacing the waiting room. Sitwell comes out of the Warden’s office proper. He stops, looks at Steve, then knocks on Pierce’s door before it shuts. “Warden Pierce. Rogers is here.” He nods at Steve as he walks past him, though he doesn't go far, settling in a chair close to the door.

“Come in, Rogers. You’re a little early for work, aren’t you?”

“I just need to talk to you for a few minutes, Warden Pierce, sir. It’s important.”

“Of course. Please. Sit down.” Pierce settles behind his desk and smiles as Steve sits, clasping his hands together to keep them from moving, to try and keep the explosive energy, the _hope_ from overwhelming him. “Now, what did you want to talk about?”

Steve tells him Parker’s story in a rush, unable to keep from punctuating with with hand gestures. He has to force himself to calm down a few times, his voice rising. Pierce listens, nodding and making noises of agreement.

“That’s quite a tale.”

“It’s more than enough to get me a new trial.”

“Assuming this… Schmidt, was it? Assuming he’s real.”

“Real? Of course he’s real. Why wouldn’t he be real?”

“Parker looks up to you. Admires you. He’s trying to impress you.”

“He’s telling the truth.”

“Let’s say he is. How long ago was he there? Who’s to say Schmidt's still there?”

“Even if he’s not they’d have record of him. Last known address, friends, relatives, parole officers.”

“And would a jury believe Parker? Or would they see a grown man putting someone who looks up to him on the stand to lie for him? Or, though we like to pretend it doesn’t happen, perhaps they’ll assume Parker is… Trying to curry your favor.”

“That’s not… I wouldn’t…”

“A criminal’s word against a criminal’s, Rogers.”

“I’m _innocent_ , damn it!”

Pierce gestures to Steve’s office off his own. “You’re far from innocent.”

“Is that what you’re worried about? I won’t tell anyone? I’m just as guilty as you. I wouldn’t get out just to incriminate myself!”

“I’m not worried at all, Rogers, because this flight of fancy you’ve bought into hook, line, and sinker is…”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse! You’re…”

Pierce stands up and slams his hand onto his desk, snarling at Steve as he leans in and gets in his face. “What did you just say to me?”

“You’re deliberately…”

“Sitwell!” Pierce cuts Steve off and stands. Sitwell walks in and Pierce points to Steve. “Throw him in the hole.”

“This is my life!”

Pierce learns in. “Your life belongs to me.” He nods as Sitwell jerks Steve to his feet. “A month. That should give Mr. Rogers some time to reflect on who’s in charge here. Who tells whom what’s to be done.”

Sitwell shoves Steve in front of him, using his baton to force him forward. Steve’s tempted to turn, to grab it from Sitwell’s hand and use it. Instead he keeps walking, anger building inside him, swimming hot through his blood.

There’s a guard at the end of the hallway and he walks over to one of the cell doors and opens it. Steve stops moving, staring at the small dark room.

“Get in there.” Sitwell shoves the baton into the middle of Steve’s back, but Steve catches himself on the doorframe. “You stupid fuck,” Sitwell hisses, bringing the handle of the baton down on the back of Steve’s head and then kicking him into the cell. Steve hunches in on himself as the metal door closes.

Every man has a breaking point

He’s lost count. The light in the hallway is always on, so there’s always a sliver of light on the wall, so it’s never quite day or night. He never looks at the light, even when he stands and walks two steps one way and then two back. He stares at the wall, his head a shadow in the rectangle of brightness.

When the door opens, he's on the ground. He’d heard the footsteps and he’d long since learned not to be standing when the door slides back. He curls in on himself and covers his face with his hands.

Pierce takes a step into the cell and smiles down at Steve. Steve manages to blink up at him, though he can’t see his face against the bright halo around his head. “Rogers. Quite a bit of work piled on your dek. And you’ll do all of it. Because nothing has changed. Nothing will change.”

He squats down and now Steve can see his shark-toothed smile, vicious and cruel. Steve stares, though he has to blink several times to keep his vision focused.

“Though that’s not precisely true. I mean, I’m sure you’ve heard about Mr. Parker. It’s truly a tragedy. Such a young man. And really only a short time left here. But then, the young are impulsive. Saw a chance to escape and took it.

Steve feels his heart and stomach both sink. He mouths the word’ no’, because he has no voice.

“No one’s ever escaped from Shield prison. Mr. Parker learned that the hard way.”

“No.” It’s weak and it makes Pierce smile wider. Steve tries to sit up, but Pierce pushes him down. 

“You’ve been afforded quite a bit of luxury here, quite a bit of freedom. Relatively. That’s been at my indulgence. And that can change. There are hells here you can’t imagine Rogers. And I will deliver you straight to them. You’ll wish it was Rumlow you had to worry about. You’ll weep for the days of an occasional beating, of a suspiciously empty dark corner. You’ll pray for death.” 

He leans in closer, hand on the wall above Steve’s head. Spit lands on Steve’s face as Pierce talks.

“What you have, Rogers? That’s freedom. Your private room and your library. You can walk halls and piss without permission. You’re not in the dark wondering which boogeyman is around the corner. You don’t belong to anyone but me. So, no, Mr. Rogers. You won’t tell anyone anything. You'll do as you’re told when you're told. Do you understand?” He’s even closer, a black spot in Steve’s vision. “Or am I being obtuse?”

He stands up and walks out of the cell, wiping the hand he’d touched the wall with on Sitwell’s uniform.

“We’ve given Mr. Rogers quite a bit to think about. Let’s give him another month to make up his mind.”

**

Bucky sits next to Steve in the library. He’s not as close as he normally sits, but he still feels close. All the light and the air and the people are too close, too much after solitary. “Hey, Stevie.”

Steve turns his head slowly, his brow furrowed. “What did you just call me?” Bucky doesn’t say anything, just smiles. Steve shakes his head. “Hiya, Buck.”

“Missed you around here. Had to unpack and shelve the books all on my own.”

“What happened to Banner?”: Steve asks quickly, not managing to keep the edge of worry from his voice.

“He’s been working with some of the guys. Teachin’ ‘m how to read, starting his own damn book club.”

“Oh.” Steve relaxes slightly. “You ever been out of the country?”

“Went to Canada a few times for the boss. Wasn’t vacationing or anything. Thank god, because it was colder than a witch’s tit in a brass brassiere.”

“I want to go somewhere warm. If I could go somewhere.”

“Like where? Tahiti?”

A warm place with no memory

“Zihuatanejo.”

“Zihu-what now?”

“It’s in Mexico. Beach. Blue. Water. Sand.”

“Say it again.”

“Zihuatanejo.”

“Sounds made up to me.”

“It’s real. I’m going to go there. Get out of here and go there. Start a new life.” Steve shakes his head and sinks down at the table. “I’m not an easy man to know. I let people see what they want. Decent, affable guy. But my wife. She called me frozen inside.”

“You’re not frozen,” Bucky says with a shake of his head. “There’s a fire burning inside you. I’m afraid it’s going to burn you up someday.

“When I was in the hole, I was thinking about that opera. You remember?”

“No one in Shield’s ever going to forget that opera.”

“I looked it up. Got a book on opera and looked it up. That song? _O welche Lust_? It’s called ‘Oh what joy’. It’s about freedom. Prisoners asking for freedom. That’s what I thought about in there for two months. Freedom.”

“Zihuatanejo. Is that what it means? Freedom?”

Steve smiles and gets to his feet, his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “It does to me.”

Steve goes to his office, putting in hours to catch up on two months of deposits Pierce bad left waiting for him. Everything is the same. Just like Pierce promised.

Everything but Steve.

When he gets back to his cell and the lights go out, he looks at the poster on the wall. Bucky had gotten him Marilyn Monroe and Raquel Welch, updating Steve’s wall as the movies coming in changed. He looks and waits and, when everything goes quiet, lifts the edge of the poster. He pulls out his pen and the Almanac and sets them on his cot before stripping down to his boxers and undershirt and crawling into the hole. The rock hammer is waiting where Steve left it, and he can see the opening where the pipes show through. All he needs is another few days and a rainstorm.

He digs.

**

Steve’s sitting in the yard, back against a stone wall. He has a hard time with sunlight still, like his eyes are still adjusting after the hole. Bucky comes over and sits next to him. Their shoulders touch, their upper arms. “Say it’s gonna storm tonight.” Bucky points up at the gathering clouds. “Always strange at night when it storms.”

“You know you’re my best friend?” Steve’s wrists are on his knees and he frowns down at his hands. “I’ve never had a best friend before. Not sure I ever really even had a friend.”

“So I’m number one out of one.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Bucky bumps Steve’s shoulder. “You’re mine. Even if we weren’t in here. If I met you, I think we’d be best friends.”

“I couldn’t have survived all this without you.”

“Ain’t the end of the line yet, kid. We’re still stuck with each other.”

Steve’s quiet for a long time, thinking too hard, too much. “Will you promise me something?”

“Sure. Hell. You don’t even have to ask.”

“No. I do. I just… I proposed to my wife on Coney Island. We were on the Wonder Wheel, and I thought I was the most original Joe in the world. Even though we weren’t really marrying for love, I thought she deserved that, you know?”

Bucky nods but doesn’t say anything , like he can sense Steve’s not finished. 

“We walked for hours. Down under the pier in the wet and cold sand, and the lights of Luna Park fading in the distance. We made love under one of the piers, which I would advise against unless you’re into finding sand in places sand’s never supposed to be.” Bucky laughs and Steve can’t help but smile. “A ways past the piers, there’s this ship graveyard. Old boats and pieces, sun--bleached and forgotten.”

Steve exhales and lets his legs fall open a bit wider, knee against Bucky’s. Bucky drops his hand between them, the back of his fingers brushing against Steve’s lower thigh. Steve closes his eyes and just feels, burns Bucky’s touch into his memory. “Steve?”

“When you get out of here, I want you to go there. There’s a piece of a boat. It was caught in a storm and torn apart. All you can see of it is a white star with a red and blue circle around it. Find that, okay?”

“Sure but…”

“There’s a rock beneath it. Big. Heavy. Probably shouldn’t be there, but it is. Look under that rock. Promise me.”

“I will. But, Steve. I’m not getting out of here.”

Steve looks at Bucky, and it feels like his eyes are burning, like maybe Bucky can see madness hidden in the blue. “I need you to swear it, Bucky. I need your word.”

Bucky just looks at him for a long time. Steve wants to see the world in Bucky’s eyes. Love and hope and the future. He just sees worry. “You’re gonna trust the word of a convicted felon.”

“I’m going to trust you.”

Bucky moves his hand up, settling it on Steve’s thigh. He squeezes lightly, but then he doesn’t pull his hand away. His palm stays hot on Steve’s thigh, his fingers splayed against blue denim. “I promise.”

Steve reaches over and sets his hand on Bucky’s, neither of them moving, the touch lasting forever or just a second. Either way, when he lets go, Steve knows it’s not long enough.

**

Thunder rumbles in the distance as Steve closes the ledger. Pierce goes to the safe to open it and, while his back is turned, Steve swaps out his Bible and a stack of folders he’d brought up from the library for the ledger and file of contracts. He tucks the real documents behind his back in the top of his pants, hidden by his jacket.

Pierce closes the safe once the books are securely locked in it, and Steve hands over three envelopes. “Three deposits today.”

“Let’s hope the storm clears up so we can do more business tomorrow, hm?”

Steve doesn’t even bother to smile. “Let’s hope.”

“You’ve got a half hour before light’s out. Take my suits to the laundry. And shine my shoes. Do a better job this time.”

Pierce walks out, and Steve moves to the window, watching until Pierce’s car disappears down the road. Once he’s gone, Steve sits down and polishes Pierces shoes until they gleam. They’re slightly too big when Steve tries them on, but he swaps them for his regular shoes anyway..

He strips off his prison garb and carefully pulls on Peirce’s suit pants and shirt before putting his own clothes back on. He shoves the tie in the pocket of one of the blazers and slips it on, followed by his own jacket. He tucks the files in behind his back and slips his feet into the dress shoes. 

It’s all slightly bulk, made more so by the ledgers, but Steve follows his instructions, his orders. He drops off Pierce’s other two suits and grabs one of the thick plastic bags that line the trash bins. He folds it up to put in his pocket. He heads back to his cell, walking slowly. He can feel Bucky's eyes on him as he walks past, feel the worry and concern. Steve can’t look at him, too afraid that his face will give everything away.

The lights go out like they had the first night he’d spent there, like every night since. This time there’s a sense of finality to the sound. Steve waits twenty minutes, waits for the first crash of thunder. Then he begins.

He undresses and puts the books and Pierce’s suit in the bag along with a bar of soap. The brightly shined shoes go in next, and Steve glances around. There’s nothing of Shield he wants to take with him, so he ties off the bag.He redresses in his prison wear then takes out a length of rope he'd’ gotten from Dugan a few days before from beneath his pillow. He knots it around the bag and lifts the edge of the poster, pushing the bag inside then following after.

In here, Steve can’t hear the storm, just his own blood racing through his veins. His pulse is pounding,. But all he feels is calm as he crawls the length of the tunnel, pushing the bag in front of him. At the end, so close to freedom, he takes the rope in hands and slowly lowers the bag down. It drops the last five feet, but any sound it makes is covered by the thunder. The storm is close, just like the Almanac predicted.

Steve climbs down, moving from pipe to pipe until he’s almost to the ground. He straddles the largest pipe. He leans over to grab the bag from the ground, and ties the rope around his bare ankle. He rubs the light brown pipe he’s seated on, looking at the rust at the edge of the seams. On the floor beside the pipe there’s a large rock, a chunk of the wall he’d let fall to the ground from the very edge of his tunnel. 

Grabbing the rock, he holds it high above his head with both hands. He watches the sky. Lightning flashes and thunder rolls and Steve brings the rock down on the pipe. He does it with every clap of thunder, the blows coming faster and faster until the storm’s right on top of them and the metal groans and gives way.

He tries not to breathe in the stench as he makes the hole big enough to crawl through. He works himself into the pipe, bracing himself on his elbows and tilting his face upward to keep it out of the sewage. Still, He’s trapped in a pipe with the brown sludge, so even that doesn’t stop the instinct to gag as he crawls forward. He doesn’t always succeed, and he loses what little he’d managed to eat that day and, after that, stomach acid.

Steve closes his eyes for a moment and lets Beethoven flood his mind. He holds onto that as he crawls, takes himself somewhere else, somewhere at the end of this tunnel. He knows the river is roughly half a mile away, but he’s unsure how much time has passed, how close he is to the end. But then he realizes the sound he hadn’t realized he was hearing isn’t in his head. It’s water.

It’s rain.

Even though the sewage runs off into the river, Steve slides out of the pipe into the water. He’s dirty and wet and disgusting, but he doesn’t care.

Because he’s free.

He rips off his prison shirt, deliberately tearing through the patch on the chest, the faded _81433_. He lets it fall off to the water, doesn’t care as it starts to wash away. He stands there in his undershirt and tilts his head back to the sky and lets the rain wash him clean.

**

There are twelve banks total, and Steve hits them all. He has the proper paperwork and credentials, all stolen along with the evidence. He withdraws all of the money from bank after bank, letting the man he invented, William Burnside, explain that he’s moving abroad. At the last bank, he asks them to mail an envelope for him and, for the first time in nineteen years, Shield prison is his past, not his future.

Twelve cashiers checks, totaling almost four-hundred-thousand dollars, become cash. He buys a convertible and some clothes, a hat and sunglasses. He eats at a diner and spends the day at Coney Island. There he eats two Nathan’s hot dogs while sitting in his car and staring up at the sky. 

He starts driving again. By now they know he’s missing. They likely know how. But in a day or two _The Daily Bugle_ will make that the least of Shield’s problems. Steve smiles at the thought and heads south.

**

As slow as time moved on the inside, it feels like it should fly past on the outside. He expects to blink and find years have gone by, but instead some months seem to drag. He has to find his own routine to try to break out of the one Shield drilled into him. He still rises at the same time each day with no need for an alarm. But instead of immediately downing breakfast, he makes himself coffee and stands inside the small kitchen in his small house, drinking it slowly as he stares out at the waves. He tries to vary the times he eats, but the rumble of hunger always comes on schedule.

The only time anything changes is when he works on the boat. He’d gotten a few looks when he’d bought it, seen the laughter in the eyes of the people he’d bought it from. They’d told him in broken English that he could get a new, sea-worthy boat instead and, in equally broken Spanish, he’d told them he was getting exactly what he wanted.

It’s small and perfect. It needs rebuilding in places, sanding and painting. He sleeps inside it during the afternoons, surrounded by the heat and letting it cradle him. His skin is sunburnt, forever peeling at his nose and shoulders. Underneath he’s tanned, a new person, molting into the Steve Rogers he was before Shield, but deeply and fundamentally changed. Not the same Steve Rogers at all.

That Steve Rogers died the night his wife and her lover did, even if it’s taken him nineteen years to realize it.

**

The days are easy. He can look around at the sea and sand and sunlight and know exactly where he is and where he isn’t. At night, it’s more difficult. He’s never sure if closing his eyes will put him back in prison or not, if the sound of the waves will become the heated hiss of the laundry room rather than the lapping at the shore. 

Sometimes he gets the best of both worlds. Some nights he closes his eyes and Bucky’s there. There and stretched out on Steve’s bed. Even though he’d tried not to look, nineteen years was ample time for Steve to memorize Bucky’s body. He knows the shape of his hips, the curve of his chest. He knows the scar on Bucky’s shoulder. It’s all there in front of him - Bucky’s there - and Steve kneels between Bucky’s parted legs. He leans over him, touches him like his hands have always ached to. He kisses him slowly, like he has two lifetimes to do it.

He always wakes up needing clean clothes and sheets. He wakes up guilty. He wakes up lonely. But he still lies there in bed and revels in the dream. Which means he feels guiltier when he finally gets up, because he doesn’t stop with thinking about it. He remembers it while he showers, indulges in the fantasy again, lets himself do more than dream. 

He does what he could never do behind bars, and imagine what it would feel like with Bucky while he strokes himself off. When he lets himself moan Bucky’s name as he comes.

It always leaves him shaking. Lonelier. Leaves him wondering if and when Bucky will get out. If he’ll remember. If he’ll come. Then Steve dries off and gets dressed, drinks his coffee and starts his day, pushing it out of his mind. Always.

Because still. He hopes.

And no good thing ever dies.

The date of Bucky’s annual parole hearing comes and goes. Steve stares at the calendar for a moment then flips it to a new month. He grabs his thermos of coffee to ward off the early morning chill, and the small cooler with sugary-sweet cola for later in the day. He’s sanding the boat by hand, scrubbing away old paint and salt water damage.

The sun shines blindingly off the white surface, and his sunglasses only manage to dim the light. Two months have passed, and he knows Bucky isn’t coming. It’s been too long. He knows it, but his heart doesn’t. He leans back and lifts his hand, fingers touching the red and blue circles, the white star painted there like a talisman. He closes his eyes and inhales the sharp breeze, the salt air.

He jerks upright at the sound of footsteps shifting sand. The locals leave him alone, and he’s far enough away from the tourist areas, that he doesn’t get visitors. He raises his hand to shade his eyes. He hasn’t been out in the sun long enough for it to be a mirage. 

Bucky stops and looks at Steve, eyes moving over him as Steve slides off the boat. “You were easy to find. Just asked if anyone knew a stubborn, crazy white man.”

“I’m tan. You’re the pale one.” 

“Must be ‘cause I’m Irish.”

They stand there, six feet apart, just looking at each other. Steve exhales shakily. “Hiya, Buck.”

Bucky smiles, wide and bright. “Hey, Stevie.”

He walks closer, stopping right in front of Steve. His hand trembles as he lifts it, as his fingers curve around the side of Steve’s neck, his palm beneath Steve’s jaw, thumb stroking his cheek. Steve’s pulse jumps and races as Bucky tightens his grip, pulling Steve closer until their foreheads touch, until they breathe each other’s air.

“I hoped you’d come.”

Bucky’s thumb runs lightly over Steve’s lips. “Nowhere else is home.”


End file.
